At the courtyard gate, she stops. Ignoring the padlock and chain, she vaults the railings and drops into the grass, following her shadow until it disappears. Ten steps bring her into a new world, quiet and roofed by stars. Thora breathes in like a swimmer surfacing from a long dive. She’s about to lie down on the grass when she sees someone has beaten her to it: a boy, spread-eagled, head thrown back like he’s trying to inhale the universe.

Someone else might thrill at encountering a kindred spirit. Thora only resents him: this space was hers, and he has taken it from her. She hovers on the grass, orbiting two possible worlds. She’s alone, and it’s dark: she should keep her distance. He’s drunk, maybe passed out: she should check on him. She sucks in a breath and takes a bet on the second world. “Hallo?” she says. “Um—ist alles okay?”

The boy scrambles to his feet. Thora takes him in. Wide eyes and curly black hair, good-looking in a way that puts her on edge in case he knows it. Short, even accounting for the fact that most people are short from Thora’s five-foot-eleven perspective.

“Englisch?” he says hopefully.

“Oh. Yeah. Please.” She laughs. “As you may have noticed, my German is basically English in a German accent.”

He looks over his shoulder at where he was lying, as if he owes her an explanation. “I was just—” He cuts himself off. “Santiago López. Santi.” The accent matches the name. It takes Thora a moment to register that he’s actually put his hand out for her to shake.

She takes it. “I thought you were passed out. I was coming to check on you.”

“You kidding me? The beers in that club were five euros. I couldn’t afford to pass out.” He looks like he’s laughing at her. “Do you have a name?”

“Of course. Introductions, that’s how they work.” She continues absurdly shaking his hand. “Thora Lišková.”

He lets go of her hand to point at her. “You sound like you’re from England. But your name doesn’t.”

One blessing of the loud party: it kept this conversation from happening. Explain your existence! Thora sighs, hoping to keep it short. “My dad’s Czech and my mum’s from Iceland, but I grew up in the UK.” She shrugs. “Academics. You know how it is.”

He runs a hand self-consciously through his hair. “Well, my father is a bus driver and my mother works in a shop, so—no, I don’t.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean—I’m not sorry they’re—” Every word pushes her on to a worse path. What right does he have to do this to her? She laughs under her breath. “Shit. You know what, I’m just going to start introducing myself as Jane Smith from now on.”